


Oasis

by poisontaster



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Dehydration, F/M, Hiding, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-30
Updated: 2010-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 19:07:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2240088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The team will find them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oasis

The team will find them. Aisha might have fantasies about killing them all in slow, excruciating ways—especially when they're in close quarters and Jensen _will not_ shut the fuck up—but they're Clay's men and they're damn good and for Clay, they'll come. They'll find them.

She's just got to keep Clay alive that long, because she's under no illusions. They'll burn her to the ground if she lets anything happen to their precious Colonel.

Can't light a fire, there's no quicker way to call attention they don't want to their position, but after a while of lying wrapped around Clay, trying to keep him warm, she hears the brittle trickle of water over the rocks. If she had any spit left in her parched mouth, that sound alone would release the floodgates.

Fingers across Clay's lips ( _such soft lips_ ) reassure her that there's breath still in him. Those same fingers brush his shoulder; the wound's still seeping, but not nearly as bad as when he was first hit. He's still not awake, but the rest is about as good as can be expected.

Even inching her way carefully across the stone with spidering hands, she finds the pool more by accident than design, slipping on the crumbling limestone edge. Max's men stripped them of just about everything but the clothes on their backs (and the one hidden knife no one was adventurous enough to find) and after hours baking, first in a cell and then under the desert sun, the touch of the water up to her elbows is shocking, like that first thrill between her thighs when a man she wants to fuck touches her just so.

Her skin is alight; even her dark tint is no proof against the deep desert sun and Clay's sunburnt skin probably hurts him even in unconsciousness; the press of her face through the water's icy membrane is another delightful shock. She dips her fingers in and strokes liquid cool down the length of her burning throat, across her shoulders, letting it trickle down across her breasts, her stomach. She has a moment to reflect with rueful irritation on what Jensen would say—and the look that Cougar would give her and the look that Pooch would very carefully _not_ give her—with her shirt wet and stretched taut across her skin (she can't get rid of the kid's annoying voice, even when he's _not_ there) before she allows herself to drink sparingly.

Ambrosia. The water is gritty and tastes heavily of minerals, and it's pure, perfect ambrosia, floating across the dried sponge of her tongue and down her tight throat. Only years of discipline and having no one looking out for her but her keeps her from gulping it down by the faceful, closing her lips regretfully. She sits up, gasping and starting to shudder, and crushes the desperate, childish, _No! Wants!_ in her mind underfoot.

If only it were as easy to do the same with her thoughts about Clay.

She could leave him there, let the stone leach the heat from his body, let the dry air suck the moisture from him like a vampire. It would be easy enough to do, to do…nothing. Navigating across the desert at night, with no tools other than her knife would be difficult, but nothing she hasn't done before.

He killed your father.

He killed your _father._

The anger is there, throbbing like a rotten tooth and sinking deeper, but when she thinks the words, when she makes herself feel them, all over again, what she sees is not her father's face—already fading—or even the stronger sense-memory of his hands, perfumed with tobacco and the oily mist of the oranges he loved.

Instead, what she thinks of is the comfortable tangle of their bodies on an old, rump-sprung sofa and the darkness in Clay's eyes when she'd asked—accused: "You have no one, do you?"

Aisha sighs. She thinks both she and Clay have come around on that idea; The Losers are Clay's family, even without the epoxy of Max to keep them together; the ridiculous pink futbol shirts are proof enough of that (Jensen gave Aisha one. She refuses to wear it). But Clay was Colonel long before he let himself be patriarch; men like Clay are slow to overwrite their definitions.

 _And he has you,_ a dry, viperous voice that reminds Aisha of no one so much as her Aunt Foo remarks.

The words sit there, as unwelcome as a maggot in her food. Then:

Another sigh, mingled cold and hot as rivulets streak for freedom down her skin and across her lips. _And he has me._

Aisha bends again and sucks a mouthful of water from the hollow. It's grittier now; the weak, slow trickle is no match for her desperate thirst. But there should be enough to keep them, until Clay's team gets them.

Aisha crawls back across the hardpan stone, struggling to keep her lips pursed tight, keep her still parched throat from gulping greedily at the slender reserve. Clay grunts when her fingers bumble into his hurt shoulder. By memory and deduction, she slips over him, bits of gravel biting into her knees and forearms as she straightens his head. Dirty, silk-soft hair slips like cobweb through her fingers.

Clay's mouth is already slightly parted, the restless reediness of his breath coursing warmly as she fits her lips over his, coaxing. Clay makes another noise, somewhere between hum and groan, lips parting wider, neck craning up at her.

She feeds the water into his mouth. For a moment, she thinks Clay's too far gone, that he won't take it. Then his throat convulses and his lips jag against hers, eager—greedy—as she'd been for the kiss of precious liquid.

When the water's gone, she shifts back on her knees; Clay's unhurt arm comes up, fingers pushing into the sweaty snarl at the nape of her neck until the knots there twine him in. The heel of his palm lies warm on her neck; he's too weak to make it more than a request: _stay._

It's a question he keeps asking her, one way or another, though he's never let it come from his lips.

Sometimes, she wonders what she'd say, if he ever came out and just _asked_ her. You know, with actual words and all. She doesn't know; she's gotten used to the dance, the pleasure of _not_ giving him what he wants.

"Aren't you dead yet?" she growls, though there's a smile there, lingering.

"Guess not." Clay's voice is as gritty as the water. "Guess you'll have to do it yourself."

"Don't tempt me."

"Hey, you're the one that's on top." Even in near pitch-blackness, she can see his leer. Bastard. He coughs. "The boys?"

"Not yet."

Clay grunts. Aisha can't tell if it's pain or whether he's dissatisfied with the answer. "They'll come."

"I know. You don't have to tell me. They're like little fucking dogs searching for the teat."

"Yeah," Clay sighs, sounding satisfied and pleased. Aisha rolls her eyes and makes a disgusted noise in her throat. 


End file.
